


Jim's just surprised he didn't catch fire when he stepped inside that church

by DrBDamned (orphan_account)



Series: Sweet Thing [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But mostly Jim, Crying John, Jim doesn't like that, Kinda..., M/M, Minor Character Death, Neither does Sherlock, Protective Sherlock, Sad John, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DrBDamned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim gets a funny feeling when he sees John cry, and it's not at all pleasant.</p><p> </p><p>Takes place in AU after The Great Game. Jim and John's first meeting since the night at he pool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jim's just surprised he didn't catch fire when he stepped inside that church

Jim Moriarty was bored.

 

Soooo bored! Bored, bored, BOOOOOOORED!

 

For once, all his 'clients' were behaving and his schemes running like clockwork. And while this can be seen as a horribly dull 'good thing', the lack of excitement was making Jim twitchy.

 

He drums his fingers on his lap, humming rather menacingly to himself. What to do, _what to do_...

 

It's been a long while since he's messed with Sherly, the poor dear. The detective must be getting ever so edgy waiting for Jim's next move. That certainly wouldn't do. And hasn't it been such a time since he last even saw that Doctor Watson! That terrible limp of his must be making a return if their lives have been as dull as his own lately, and Jim is sure that if the doctor spent some time playing games with him that he'd be able to get rid of that darn limp at least for a little while.

 

Of course, the veteran may end up with a few other injuries in its place.

 

With a gentle smile gracing his lips, Jim takes out his phone and makes a call.

 

“Find out where Watson is right now. I'd like to swing by and say hello.”

 

 

 

Jim watches with glee at the sight of the two flatmates arguing outside the entrance to St Barts. Sherlock, as usual, appears to be blabbering on like he so loves to do, whereas the doctor simply stands, ramrod straight and hands clenched into tight fists by his sides. Clearly his army self control is having to take over at the moment to stop him from punching his friend's ridiculous cheekbones.

 

But as Jim watches on, Sherlock's face softens minutely, and he reaches out a hand to place on the shorter man's good shoulder. Whatever he says in that moment makes the doctor seem to slump; his head bowed and his hands now loosely hanging from his limp arms. He looks to be trying to compose himself, taking deep breaths as Sherlock patiently watches, before he suddenly rushes forward and all but yanks the lanky detective into his arms. To Sherlock's credit, he only flails for a second before he's squeezing back. The hug is brief but fierce, and it fascinates Jim to no end. _They're touchy-feely now?_

 

After letting go, the doctor says one last thing to Sherlock, before gesturing behind him as he starts to wander off down the street. Sherlock hesitantly stares at his retreating back for a moment, before hailing a cab in a flourish of black wool and curls.

 

Finally, Jim grins to himself, the fun can start.

 

 

 

He admittedly is confused as to what Watson is doing as he cautiously follows him round the garden of the quaint little church he seems to be accustomed to. The army veteran himself is taking his time just enjoying being outside, looking around at the flowers, staring at the stained-glass windows of the church building. Why on earth has the doctor come here of all places? What happened today to make the two flatmates argue and hug in the same conversation? _Ugh, this is starting to get tedious now..._

 

Just as Jim is thinking of heading back to the car to find the worst dressed stranger on the street to pick up and mess with, finally, _finally_ Watson steps inside the church.

 

Jim can only force himself to wait three minutes and forty-five seconds before he has to follow, there being no windows he can peak through.

 

Thankfully, the heavy wooden door doesn't make a sound as he slowly pushes it open and steps inside. The church is much the same on the inside as it is on the outside; small, not particularly fancy, but humble and welcoming. It rather suits the only man it holds at this moment, Jim thinks as his eyes fall on the small figure hunched over itself on one of the middle pews. Jim stiffens as something ugly curls in his stomach at the sight before him.

 

John is clearly shaking, and though his sobs are soft and muffled by his hands, they echo in the empty room. Jim has heard many people cry - men, women, children. He has been the reason for their pain and tears most of the time as well. It's never made him feel anything before. But there's something about the fact that John Watson is crying that makes him do just that, that makes Jim _feel._ He's not sure what, exactly, he feels. Anger? Protectiveness? Sadness? A combination of all three? It's hardly a pleasant feeling anyway.

But even Jim – twisted and evil as he is – knows that there is something fundamentally _wrong_ about John Watson crying. He is too kind a man, too honest a man, too caring and patient and good a man to ever feel such pain as to make him cry like he is at this moment. And he is crying now. Really crying, pulling in great gasping sobs he can't even try to muffle any more. He shakes still, and his head is bowed so far Jim fears he'll lose his balance and fall off the bench.

 

But it's the sad little sniffle and the way John wipes at his nose pathetically with the sleeve of his frumpy jumper that has Jim ghosting over to stand above him like some sort of manic, sharply dressed guardian angel. The consulting criminal is hardly surprised that John doesn't notice him, at least not until Jim has squished himself right up against his side, one sturdy arm around his waist and a strong hand pulling down his pretty little blonde head to rest on Jim's chest.

 

John stops his crying to look up in total shock at Moriarty. His eyes are wide and round and the clearest blue Jim has ever seen, but they are also rimmed in red and brimming with tears of pain and it hurts, it actually _hurts_ Jim's heart to look at them. John opens his mouth to suck in the smallest of breaths as if he's going to speak, but he doesn't. He simply stares, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows.

 

Jim uses this pause of bewilderment to take in the rest of the small man's appearance; the mess of his hair from where shaking hands have been running through them, tugging occasionally. His clothes are rumpled, and he has no coat with him, though it is frosty today. Tear tracks run down his reddened cheeks, and snot drips down out his nose to pool at his upper lip. Jim sighs and lifts his arm to wipe at the mess with his sleeve, the corner of his mouth lifting as the tips of John's ears redden in embarrassment. Small hands – surgeon's hands, life-saving hands – are gripping the lapels of Jim's coat seemingly unconsciously. He stares at them for a second, then his eyes shoot back up to meet John's as the man lets out a shaky breath.

 

“Harry died.”

 

Jim's face softens with understanding and – pigs must be flying – sympathy, and that's all it takes for John's face to crumple once more, and Jim presses his head to his chest so that it's hidden almost underneath his armpit, keeping John hidden and safe. Jim grips him tight around his shoulder and waist, and John clenches at his coat in return. Gentle shushes mix in a medley with John's heart-wrenching sobs that echo around them. They stay that way – Jim rocking him back and forth ever so slightly, rubbing small soothing circles into his back - until John, exhausted, nods off, still burrowed under Jim's arm. And then they stay a bit longer still.

 

 

 

It is almost dark before Jim has the heart to wake up the doctor. He snuffles his nose against the rough fabric of Jim's shirt before everything seems to click and he pauses, much like a deer in the headlights. The Irishman chuckles, and John lifts his head up at the noise, eyes still as wide as they were a few hours ago.

 

“Home for you, I think. No doubt Sherlock will be tearing his hair out by now.”

 

 

The ride home is quiet, as Jim expected it would be. John sits still, Jim's coat around his shoulders to ward off the chill, staring out of the window, though now and again he'll peek round at Jim when he thinks the other man won't notice. Jim, of course, does notice, and finds it adorable.

 

Sherlock is already standing outside the door when they arrive at Baker Street. He's paler than usual, and his eyes are fixated on John as he stumbles out the car. Jim is at his side in an instant and keeps an arm out, almost touching, but never actually, to steady him should he fall. They make it to the door, where Sherlock steps forward and takes John firmly by his coat-covered shoulders to steer him inside. He nudges the smaller man forward towards the stairs before turning to Jim.

 

Sherlock looks him up and down, no doubt taking in all the useful data he can find, but when his eyes land on Jim's face, they stay there. Whatever the detective sees makes his head cock slightly to the left and his eyes narrow curiously. Before Jim has time to become concerned the man is leaping up the steps to 221B and slamming the door shut behind him.

 

 _Fuck_ , Jim think to himself. And then out loud,

 

“Fuck.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Welllll, here's my second ever fanfic! Another Johniarty (yay!), but it's a bit rushed, so I apologise for that. Not as cracky as the last one, so apologies for that too, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! As always, please review! I really do appreciate it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock


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